Luckless
by Eiji-Joan-Cathval
Summary: AU SpainxBelgium one-shot fic. :  Our herione works at a bar where she meets the strange man Antonio.


Luckless

There had been something in that city that kept me there. After so many years of pitiful and useless years, I stayed. There was nothing all too wonderful about it. Sure, the tourists found it beautiful and full of gorgeous sights and sounds, but for me, there was nothing. There was nothing Barcelona left for me. There had been. Nothing now. The thirtieth floor was not high enough for me either. When I watched the water, I looked for something from him, but could only find empty, broken pieces for me. If only I had found just an anything from earlier. Because at the time, I had never appreciated it the way I should have. Yet, there was nothing for now.

Everything is now so broken and so black and so blue. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I have heard music in the nights. His music. The kind he loved and never went anywhere without. I could hear it under the street lights and amongst the buildings. More than once, I thought I saw him in the streets, standing there. Just waiting for me. But when I would awake from my delusion, there was not a soul there to greet me. I knew it was a pointless dream. Because I know that was forever changed. I never should have thought anything of it. And I was the fool in the deck, not the other way around. I worked at a bar down the street. It was loud, busy, and always packed with drunken men and soccer fanatics. It was there that I met him. Yes, among all of the other idiots there. I met him.

He had dark, curly brown hair and brilliant green eyes. I used to make fun of him for them. Because they were my favorite color. Just the way he acted gave off the appeal he was the romantic type. What with his relaxed speech and the way he would sit on the stool. It still amazes me that he would say he wasn't the flirtatious type. Then again, he may have been saying this to come off as modest, again. He was a great professional at doing that after all. He was certainly odd to me, after all of the other types of men I had ever spoken with in the past.

He liked the taste of wines and tomatoes and preferred working for something rather than being given it as a gift. He loved his guitar and soccer, yet bitterly hated most things American or British. He told me once that it was because he had come into contact with some of the sort he simply just didn't like. He was outwardly happy and cheerful and could snap into one of the most frightening things I had ever laid my eyes on. No, this man was one of a kind. His best friends were a Frenchman and a German and his roommate was Italian. I never understood his motives for a lot of the things he did or said, but at the same time, it was one hell of a great time. Even when I had first met him.

"_Buenos Noches, Se__ñ__orita_!" He was always the chipper type. "_Una cerveza, por favor_!"

I would laugh at his politeness and even decided to call him out on it. Regardless of his outward appearance, he was certainly both of those mentioned previously. Drunk or soccer fanatic. He was simply more modest about the former. He winked and told me that he was a gentleman, it was how he worked. I rolled my eyes. I had thought of him as like any other man I had met while I always seemed to get the shifts during soccer matches. He waved his hand, resting an arm on the bar.

"Where are you from, Señorita?" He grinned. "Your accent is off."

"Brussels."

"_Belgium_? That's pretty far from here, Señorita."

"I do what I can," I returned, sliding his drink to him.

He took a swing, glanced at the score, and turned back to face me. He grinned again. "What's your name?"

I smiled, I assumed he would probably forget in less than an hour or so anyway. "Anaïs," I said nonchalantly, clearing off the water mark left by the beer on the wood with my hand.

He tapped his chin. "It's pretty." I shrugged as I got another three beers for some yelling soccer fans. Apparently they were winning. He extended his hand as I whipped mine on my apron. "Antonio."

I stared at it for a few seconds before realizing what he meant. I laughed because I believed he had been drunk at the time. Never the less, I did indeed shake his hand. "_Aangenaam, _Antonio."

To my shock, for the next few weeks he had come into the bar every day, at the exact same time in the evening. Even if there wasn't a match on, there he was. He sat at the same seat too. Grinning and talking to me about something new every time. I couldn't help but shake my head at him. Why come see a lonely Belgian girl working at one out of a million bars in the city? Regardless, I thought it was great comfort too. Because I wanted a change in my life, why not this weird Spanish man?

He used to tap the counter with his fingers like drumsticks, brushing away my comments to tell him to stop. He would whisper words under his breath to go along with his tune while I served customers to his left and right. Because he just _had_ to sit dead center. "It's so that I know I won't have to fight for your attention!" was what he had explained to me. I would sigh and continue.

"I like your ribbon, by the way!" He called as I handed a drink to a balding construction worker. I touched the red ribbon I wore in my short blonde hair.

I turned to see him waving and, of course, donning a huge grin on his face. I would never, ever understand him. He was just so different and happy. I was simply not used to it. I would though. It would only take time.

"So, Anaïs," he said, on an empty-bar-day, turned so that his back and elbows were resting against the wood while he turned the stool left and right lightly. He looked over his shoulder at me and continued, "Why did you leave Belgium?"

I shrugged. I knew exactly why. "There were just some people I didn't want to be bothered with anymore, that's all."

He spun on the chair around, slamming his palms to the wood. I jumped. "What did they do?"

I studied him. It really was none of his concern, yet I ended up telling him in the shortest version I could put together. He listened to me, defying what I had assumed he would do instead, and even stayed silent. I simply needed to get away from the life I had before, because it was far too bitter and far too luckless. He asked if I had dated someone to get my mind off of it all. I shrugged. They were nothing special. Oddly enough, they too were a Frenchman and a German. Both of which, simply were there to be there. Nothing special. Nothing that could help my life get any better than it was. He nodded when I fell silent, which, honestly, was fairly deafening. Not only was it awkward, the silence was actually louder than an entire room full of people.

To break the ear piercing "noise", he managed, "So, what did you used to do?"

"I made chocolates." It had its own rewards, but couldn't pay the bills very well. Unfortunately, that's what I needed more at the time. I needed life and good food. "I ended up having to sell the shop."

I never asked him in return what he did. I didn't want to take a chance on either a good and healthy lifestyle or a pitiful and broken one. Either one would have killed me on the inside. His brilliant eyes had fallen from me and cast over the glasses that hung from above. At that very time, I would have never guessed he was hurting on the inside. I had never quite paid as much attention to those lovely eyes or his face as I should have because then I would have seen the struggle he was having. I would have never guessed anything to be sad or depressing about him. Never. Not even in the slightest.

"I think I'm going to play my guitar for you sometime," he had whispered as if he were in a daze. I leaned against the counter, watching his eyes wander, but I never said anything. "Yeah, I think I'll do that."

One day he came with a guitar strapped to his back. He burst through the door before I could change the sign to 'closed'. I would only shake my head and let him in. It had become natural then. He leapt onto his stool and whipped the guitar onto his lap. I wandered back behind the counter and leaned towards him, resting on my arms and smiling. He was such a weird man, I could barely stand it. Yet at the same time, it was just fantastic.

"I brought it! Like I promised I would!" he was tuning it, shooting glances up to me and back to the instrument.

"And what are you going to play?" Never the less I was indeed curious as to what he could think up.

He shrugged. "I never think about questions like that." He was so excited, it was contagious.

I dropped my head, laughing. "Isn't that kind of important?"

He stopped and looked at me. "Not really," he grinned. Oh yes, he was a strange one.

He strummed it a few times and I looked up from my hair to see happy green eyes. He pulled on the end of my ribbon. I couldn't help but laugh. At least until he asked me where I had gotten it from. I sighed. It was one of the things I couldn't let go. It was one of the few things that kept me connected to my old home and one of the men I used to know and love. But now, I merely let people think of it as a fashion accessory. And that made it better. His only reply was a small 'oh' before he played a few chords.

He began playing, soft and sweet. Soon, he began singing in low Spanish that I hardly had a care I couldn't understand easily under his thick accent. I closed my eyes and listened. It was lovely and beautiful, simply beautiful. I had been alone for so long, Antonio was the happy dream in a nightmare. I never wanted to see him unhappy. And I believed he wanted the same for me. He sang and played, but I could tell that the song was sad and heartbroken. So was his expression. Still, he would occasionally smile at me, even when I managed to pick up the line "_Y por pensar tengo un millón de cicatrices."_ I wanted to ask him so many questions. But above, all I wanted to ask where all his scars were from.

When he was finished he hugged the body of the guitar and smiled. I told him it was beautiful and that I was so grateful to hear him play. He thanked me with another smile. Sometimes, I think back and wonder if I had really seen his eyes look like they were about to cry or not. It may have been the lighting or something of the sort for all I know.

"He didn't know what he had," he said in a tight whisper.

I shrugged. "Which one? Because either way, it ended the same way."

"Both." He sat up. "But especially the one who gave you your ribbon. They had no idea what they missed."

I tossed the rag on my hip into the drawer. "If you say so."

"I do," he said. "But then again, I didn't know what I had either." I eyed him. "She was all I had."

I didn't have work and there he showed up, at my front door step. I had only barely mentioned once where I lived, still, he was there, with a bright expression and a bright green shirt. He slid his hands into his jeans and winked with a "_Buenos Dias_!". I was tempted ask why he was there and what on earth he was doing. But I never did. Instead, I merely opened my door wider and allowed myself to be taken by the hand. I hardly had the time to swing my door shut as I was pulled down the hall, the stairs and into the busy and full streets.

We laughed under the street lamps, the people, and the colors. The summer heat was nothing to us. Everything was wonderful and brilliant. The lights danced off his clothes and he took my hand to dance with me. Spinning, turning with clasped hands and laughs. It was just great. It all was just so great. When we stopped, we held our hands tightly clasped above our heads. He laughed and told me that he couldn't ask for a better evening. I agreed. He was the only thing that had made me happy in so long.

"So there's this girl I really like," he said as we swayed.

"Yeah?" I was laughing and grinning and I didn't even know it.

"And she's really pretty, and nice, and smart," he was trying not laugh.

"Oh?" I smiled more. Because I was beginning to love him then.

I was beginning to love him more than anything else I ever had.

He came into the bar that one specific evening. I looked up with a smile, knowing just who it would be. It faltered and fell. Yes, it was him. With another girl holding his hand and smiling and laughing with. I pursed my lips and my eyes flicked away. She was pretty and Italian and she wore skirts instead of jeans and blouses instead of track jackets and t-shirts. He left her by the door and ran up to me, sitting on his chair. His smile was blinding, but I knew it wasn't for me. He drummed a quick and happy beat on the counter.

"That's her!" he said, whispering. As if she could have heard him among the loud people and television. "The girl I had been talking about."

"O-oh," I choked. I gave him a fake smile. "I'm so… happy for you, Antonio."

He leaned over the wooden bar and hugged me. "You're my best friend, Anaïs. Thanks for being there for me."

We grinned at one another, though mine was forced and horridly false. He hoped off to the girl, took her by the hand, walking out the door, leaving me there at my bar with the people. That was the last time I had seen him, green eyes, guitar, curly hair, and gorgeous smile.

"He loved you, you know," a friend of mine, and his, said once, cigarette in hand. He leaned back against the bar.

"I know," I could only smile. "He just loves something more now."

He gave me a look you'd give an insane woman. "I personally assumed it would happen." He took a drag. "I don't understand why Antonio never asked you. I thought by the way you two acted you were already dating."

So did I. But I refused to say it out loud. It was sickening to think I fell in love with _another_ man. Right after I had supposedly learned my lesson. Even if he was the happiest thing to ever happen to me. I needed security in someone else, found it, and then blew it by never acting. Of course I did. That was all I ever did. I had let the chance just slip me by. It was so close, yet so far at the same time. But then, if we had gotten together right then, we would be perfectly happy. But not in love. And that's what would have killed me. I would have been the only one to care about those feelings that had apparently become one sided. Then again, I should have known from the beginning it would have ended in a train wreck called heart break. Almost lovers always do.

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><p>Hello everyone! Sorry it has been a long time since I've updated! "Beautiful Nights" Chapter 3Ending will be up within the next few days!

So, this was mostly inspired by three songs: "Almost Lover", "Barcelona", and "Un Millón de Cicatrices" in case anyone was wondering where they had heard some of those lines before! :)

Thank you for reading!


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